


on the red line overload

by boasamishipper



Series: and i think it's gonna be a long, long time [3]
Category: Captain Marvel (2019), Top Gun (1986)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Crying, Established Relationship, Flashbacks, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Kissing, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-09-23 03:03:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20332990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boasamishipper/pseuds/boasamishipper
Summary: He’s a cadet. He’s nothing. He’s told no one about this because everyone knows that Noh-Varr has a habit of picking out pretty cadets and taking a special interest in them until the cadet does something wrong, or says something wrong, and then they’re kicked out of the Academy, unable to ever find another job, their name blackened for generations. And he can’t have that. Not after Yon-Rogg had gone to all the trouble of getting him into the Academy in the first place. Hecan’t.-The past always has a way of coming back when you least expect it.





	on the red line overload

**Author's Note:**

> **WARNING:** This story contains non-explicit references to rape/non-con, and some references to torture. Read at your own risk.
> 
> This story is NOT canon compliant in the overall OATEverse.

Joining Star Force requires four years of training at the Academy of War and Peace, staffed by the best instructors Hala has to offer. Chell owes his admission to Yon-Rogg, who’d saved his life after the accident and had been training him one-on-one since he’d been released from the hospital. And while he likes most parts of the Academy — the view of the city from his dorm window, the sparring arena, the flight simulators in the back wing — there are some parts that he despises. Like the early morning marches, and the coldness of the nurses that run the infirmary. And Kree History 302, taught by Professor Noh-Varr.

It’s not just the class that he hates. He still can’t read Kreeglyphs very well, which makes every test and assignment a migraine just waiting to happen. The students snicker at him when he asks stupid questions — but how is he supposed to remember facts from three hundred years ago when he can’t even remember facts from his own life? — and the professor…

Well. The less said about him, the better.

Chell’s just leaving the evening lecture, his mind swimming with information about the creation of the Supreme Intelligence, when he hears, “Just a moment, Cadet.”

He stops at the door, letting the few remaining students out before him, fighting to keep his breathing even as Noh-Varr approaches him. He’s a handsome man, Chell supposes, with graying hair and a square jaw, but his eyes are as cold and unforgiving as a snake’s. “Professor,” he manages.

“Cadet,” says Noh-Varr. In his hand is a holofile, and Chell can just make out his own name written across the top. His last exam. Oh, stars. “Did I not tell you that you would need to work harder in this class in order to succeed?”

His heart stutters in his chest. “Yes, sir.”

“Do you recall what I said would happen if you did not earn a satisfactory score on your next exam?”

His stomach curdles. Sweat has begun to congeal under his uniform. “Yes, sir.”

“And what was that.”

It’s not phrased like a question, but Chell knows he has to answer. Any attempts at evasion or escape will not be received well. His hands tremble at his sides, and he clenches them tightly. No emotion. He needs to keep it together. “I would be properly disciplined,” he says, and he inwardly thanks every last star that his words come out steady. “Sir.”

Noh-Varr reaches out, brushes off some invisible dust on Chell’s shoulder. His hand lingers, and Chell bites the inside of his cheek to keep from shivering at the touch. “That’s right,” he says, his voice low. “That’s exactly right.”

Every cell in his body is screaming for him to run. He remembers the first time this happened four months ago, when he’d gone to Noh-Varr’s office after he’d failed a test and had been forced to give Noh-Varr a blowjob in exchange for getting his grade bumped up. Since then, he’d found himself summoned to Noh-Varr’s office a few times a month, where he’d be punished for his poor performance on papers and exams, and Chell thinks of Noh-Varr’s sly, hungry smiles and ropes digging into his wrists and gags shoved in his mouth to prevent him from screaming and wants to die.

He’s a cadet. He’s nothing. He’s told no one about this because everyone knows that Noh-Varr has a habit of picking out pretty cadets and taking a special interest in them until the cadet does something wrong, or says something wrong, and then they’re kicked out of the Academy, unable to ever find another job, their name blackened for generations. And he can’t have that. Not after Yon-Rogg had gone to all the trouble of getting him into the Academy in the first place. He _ can’t. _

Two more months, he reminds himself, as he had almost every night since the first. Just two more months of this, and he’ll pass the class, and he’ll never have to see Noh-Varr again.

Nails dig into his skin hard enough to draw blood, and Chell automatically looks up. Alarm bells start wailing in his head at the sight of Noh-Varr’s quiet fury, at the hunger in his eyes. “Did you hear what I said, Cadet?”

Bile rises in the back of his throat. He’s in for it now. “No, sir.”

Quick as a flash, Noh-Varr shoves him hard into the doorframe — his back screams in protest; great, another bruise to add to his collection — and gets right in his face. “My office, Cadet. Now.” His voice is soft, silky-smooth. Chell wishes he would yell instead. “Do you understand me?”

And Chell manages a nod, because he has no other choice. “Yes,” he whispers. “Yes, sir.”

* * *

Finishing what Mar-Vell had started is a lot more complicated in practice than in name. For one, it means a lot of traveling from planet to planet, from the Nova Empire to the Kree Empire, searching through cities and farms and small towns for any sign of Skrull. Soren and Talos help a lot, and it doesn’t always end in bloodshed and casualties, but sometimes the missions are so draining that all Maverick can do upon returning to the Cruiser is collapse in bed and not move for three days straight.

For another, it means that he can only go back to Earth every four or five months, and his stays often range from three days to a week and a half. He’s frustrated by the brevity of his visits, even if he knows it’s for the best, but he tries to make the most of them. Fury usually comes up from whatever SHIELD office he’s at to see him, sometimes bringing Director Keller (the man Talos had simmed) and Coulson and, on one memorable occasion, Peggy Carter, who’s pushing eighty and still looks like she could kick his ass without breaking a sweat or smudging her mascara. And no matter how long he’s able to stay, every visit is worth its weight in gold because it means he gets to see Ice again.

Maverick arrives late in the night, and since Ice has to work, he spends the day at home with Chewie and talking on the phone with Fury, who’s in Romania helping Coulson track down some assassin known only as Hawkeye. Ice takes him to a new Thai place for dinner; the food is pretty good but they end up leaving after less than an hour, and he’s proud to say that they manage to arrive back at Ice’s house without getting into any accidents.

The door has scarcely shut behind them when he and Ice collide, and it’s like a supernova. Maverick kisses him hard, desperate and frantic, wanting everything he had gone the last hundred and seven days without. Ice’s hands are in his hair, on his waist, pulling him close, and Maverick’s hands have just started fumbling with Ice’s belt — so stupid, belts, why did anyone ever wear them — when Ice, seemingly having decided that they aren’t close enough, pushes him so he’s pressed up flat against the wall.

His back catches against the edge of the doorframe, sending sharp pain down his spine, and suddenly Maverick’s not even there anymore. He’s back in that lecture hall on Hala, pressed up against the wall with nowhere else to go, and he can’t breathe. He can’t fucking breathe, his heart is going to pound right out of his chest, and Noh-Varr’s got his hands on him and they’re going to go to his office and no, no, please, no—

“Mav? Mav, what’s the matter?”

_ —crying out in pain, struggling against the bonds holding him, a gag stuffed in his mouth, Noh-Varr laughing— _

“Please.” He feels like he’s choking on his own terror; everything is a blur, a gray haze, and he still can’t breathe. “Please, I’m sorry, I’ll do better, I’m sorry—”

“Mav, it’s okay, it’s going to be okay, just breathe—”

There are hands on his shoulders, on his arms, trying to keep him in place, and he panics. His own hands automatically light up with energy and he shoves them out, his palms coming into contact with solid muscle, and on the other side of coherence he hears a muffled cry of pain — good, let the fucker know even a quarter of the pain he’d caused — and he snaps, “Don’t touch me!”

The hands automatically move back. No one’s touching him now, no one’s pushing him up against anything, and it’s a little easier to breathe now. But what about the next time? There’s always a next time, and he’s always going to end up back in that fucking office—

_ “Stay still, Cadet,” Noh-Varr purrs, and Chell obeys, squeezing his eyes shut in the hopes that he could block out the world, escape all of the pain that’s sure to follow because of his stupidity— _

“Maverick, listen to me. Can you hear me? Can you hear my voice?”

Yes. He can.

“It’s okay. You’re okay, Mav. Whatever you’re seeing, it’s not real. I promise. You’re not on Hala, you’re on Earth. You’re in Fallon, with me. Do you remember?”

He’s not on Hala. He’s on Earth. In Fallon.

“Breathe with me, Mav. In and out. It’s going to be okay. Just breathe with me.”

_ Easier said than done, _ he thinks, and his laugh comes out like a strangled, hysterical sob.

“It’s okay. It’s okay, Mav. Just breathe with me. Come on.”

Slowly, he breathes in and out, following the instructions, and the world around him starts flickering back into focus. He’s not on Hala. He’s on the floor in the hallway, his hands trembling, every muscle in his body aching like he’d just flown from one end of the galaxy to the other. He’s in Fallon, Nevada, and he’s visiting for a few days. He’s not Kree. He’s a human, and his name is Maverick Mitchell, and he’s never going back to Hala again.

Ice is crouched in front of him, his expression drawn. “Hey,” he whispers, cautious and careful. There’s a scorch mark the size of a fist on his right shoulder, a scorch mark that Maverick must have left, and the sight makes him want to be sick. “You alright now?”

Maverick forces himself to nod. “Yeah.” His voice is so hoarse he can barely recognize it as his own. “I think so.”

“Do you…has that happened to you before?”

“…Sometimes.” He curses himself for sounding so weak. “Not for a long time, though.”

“Do you know what might have triggered it?”

Maverick swallows hard. Ice has the kind of voice that makes you answer whether you want to or not. “You pushed me against the wall,” he says. “And I…it brought back some bad memories. That’s all.”

“Fuck, Mav, I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“It’s okay.” He shakes his head. “It’s not your fault.”

Ice reaches out like he wants to touch him, and then retracts his hand again. It’s probably for the best. His whole body is still on edge and one touch might send him back to a place he doesn’t want to go. “Mav,” he says softly. “Do you…want to talk about it?”

Part of him (alright, most of him) really, really doesn’t. But another part, the part that’s more Maverick than Chell, knows that talking about it will help. It had helped him get through Goose’s death; maybe the same principle will apply. “Before I was in Star Force, I had to complete four years of training at the Academy. I needed six credits of history to graduate, so I…I took Kree History 302. And the professor didn’t like me.” He lets out a long, shuddering breath. “Or maybe he liked me too much.”

He watches Ice’s face drain of color as the words sink in. “What did he do to you?”

His jaw works noiselessly for a moment. “Hurt me,” he finally manages. “Tied me up. Beat me. And he…he’d…” His voice breaks. “Don’t make me say it, Ice. Please.”

_ “Mav.” _Ice, if possible, goes even paler. He opens his mouth, closes it again, looking like he might throw up. “Jesus, Mav. How long did…how long did that go on for?”

“Six months.” He’d managed to pass the class, much to Noh-Varr’s dismay, and he’d spent the semester break either in the arena blasting the life out of the practice dummies or in bed sobbing with his report card cradled to his chest. “Give or take a few days.”

“And you never told anybody?”

“I couldn’t.” Tears well up in his eyes, and he swipes them aside with his wrist. “I would’ve been kicked out of the Academy if I said anything, and I had to…I needed…” _ I needed to prove to everyone that I was worth it. _ “Anyway.” He ducks his head, manages a self-deprecating laugh. “Better me than someone else.”

The silence stretches out, and Maverick is sure any moment now Ice will get up and leave, walk away from him like everyone else in life had before because he’s too broken and pathetic to be bothered with, but Ice just moves closer. “Mav,” he says, and Maverick prepares himself for the worst. “Can I hold you?”

His throat is too tight for speech, but he gives a tiny, jerky nod.

Ice puts his arms around him, holding him close, and the wall Maverick had tried to erect comes crumbling down into dust. He buries his face in Ice’s chest, his shoulders heaving with wracking, painful sobs, but Ice doesn’t let him go. “It’s okay,” he keeps saying, and Maverick clings to those words like a lifeline in a storm. “It’s okay, Mav. I’m here. I’ve got you.”

What feels like hours later — maybe days, maybe an eternity — his tears run dry, and his sobs fade, leaving only the occasional hiccough. His face feels hot and sticky, like he’d just recovered from a fever. “M’sorry.”

“What? Why?”

_ For freaking out on you. For ruining the moment. For acting so goddamn pathetic over something I haven’t even thought about in seven years. _But he senses none of those responses would go over well, so he settles on something else. “I think I got snot on your shirt.”

He feels the answering shake of Ice’s laugh. “I’ll wash it.”

“I burned it too.”

“Then I’ll throw it out.” He shrugs. “It was getting old anyway.”

“Still. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize for anything, Mav,” Ice says quietly, and Maverick gets the feeling he’s talking about more than just his shirt. “Hey. Promise me something, will you?”

_ I’d promise you the moon and the stars if you asked me to. _ “What?”

“If I do something to you that hurts you, or that makes you uncomfortable…tell me, alright?” Ice’s hand keeps stroking his back, up and down, up and down, and the motion keeps him anchored to the earth. “I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t…I don’t want you to think about what the Kree did to you when you’re with me.”

Maverick draws back — not far enough that Ice’s arms aren’t around him, but enough that his head is no longer buried in Ice’s chest. “I never do,” he says. Ice raises his eyebrows as if to say _ Really?, _ and Maverick snorts despite himself. “Okay, yeah, but before now, I never did. You’re not…you could never hurt me, Ice.” _Not like they did. _“I know that.”

Ice does not look placated. “You scared the shit out of me, Mav,” he says, quiet but no less serious. “You were fine one second and then you just — you were hyperventilating, you couldn’t hear me talking to you, you looked like a fucking ghost. I never want to see you looking like that again because of something I did. Alright?”

For a moment, Maverick tries to imagine what it would have been like had their situations been reversed, if he’d accidentally done something that had sent Ice into a panic attack, and it makes his stomach swoop like he’d missed a step going down the stairs. “Alright,” he says. “I promise.”

They sit there for a while after that, leaning against the wall, Ice’s arm over Maverick’s shoulders, Maverick’s head resting against Ice’s chest. It’s dark outside now; the lights from passing cars on the street illuminate strange patterns on the carpet. 

“So,” Ice says at last, and Maverick glances up at him. “What’ll it take to convince you to move with me to the living room?”

A smile tugs at his mouth. “A kiss.”

“Seems a little steep,” Ice says, “but alright,” and he kisses him. It’s chaste, barely a peck, but Maverick feels himself go red nonetheless. “C’mon, let’s go. My ass is killing me.”

Maverick, who has a vested interest in the continued well-being of Ice’s ass, offers up his most devilish grin. “Want me to kiss it and make it better?”

Ice laughs. “Maybe later,” he says, his eyes dancing with amusement. He stands up and extends his hand. “Come on.”

Maverick takes it, and he lets Ice pull him to his feet. “Alright.” He presses a kiss to the corner of Ice’s mouth — a _ thank you _ and an _ I love you _in equal measures. “Let’s go.”


End file.
